


Sometimes you need to shift your game from macro to micro

by prettymanly, punchdrunkard (twopunch)



Category: StarCraft
Genre: Action/Adventure, Canon - Video Game, Don't Have to Know Canon, Gen, Guns, Humor, Leadership, Science Fiction, Slice of Life, Space Marines, Space Opera, Spaceships, Team Dynamics, Video & Computer Games, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-17
Updated: 2011-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-27 10:53:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettymanly/pseuds/prettymanly, https://archiveofourown.org/users/twopunch/pseuds/punchdrunkard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What the title says, starring a couple rebel leaders. Even with compatible management styles, it's good to be multi-focused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes you need to shift your game from macro to micro

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wasabi_girl1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wasabi_girl1/gifts).



> Takes place between SC1/Brood Wars and SC2. Slashiness levels are up to interpretation.
> 
> Cowritten by Punchdrunkard.
> 
> Beta'd by Sabaceanbabe and Kurokurorin.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
_  
So, you want to hear a story? You’ve come to the right place, friend. I’ll tell you a story._

 _This story starts in space. There’s us, and there’s them, and everyone in between. We'll throw in a few beautiful heroes, because the world is full of them -- these people who bend the world and universe to their will, fighting for others. Fighting for themselves. Sometimes just fighting because they like fighting._

 _Let's mix it up. Let's throw in some aliens. A lost love. Some new, potential love glimmering like a star going supernova, but unacknowledged because our handsome hero isn't looking at the navigational array that day._

 _But you know what?_

 _Heroes -- everybody likes heroes. They have great stories, but, yeah. You're right. It's been done._

 _Alright, let's try something a little different._

 _You see that hero over there? That man with the dark, mysterious past and hidden pain? He drowns his sorrow in a bottle of Scotty Bolger's Old #8 and a sad ditty on the old jukebox. This is a man who carries the hearts and dreams of countless men and women on his back._

 _Now pull back._

 _The ceiling fan creaks like it's ready to finally give up its last breath and fall, spinning to its freedom. A fly buzzes past to land on the breasts of a beautiful young lady spray-painted for eternity on an old helmet that decorates the wall. Look a little to the left of that, one table over. See that plain-looking fellow standing there, with the turtleneck and starched uniform? That guy there, looks the type, doesn’t he? The kind of guy that's always a few steps behind and to the side of the guy in the middle. Look at his earnest face, the stress lines beginning to form at the corners of his eyes. Look at the stiff posture and all that determination. He's the voice on the intercom. He's the woman signing off on security protocols. The man on his hands and knees under the explosive belly of a malfunctioning Vulcan._

 _You always hear stories about the heroes, but what about the men and women running along in the background there?_

 _What about guys like him?_

 

\---------

 

Matt Horner was standing in his usual position by the briefing table on the bridge when the adjutant popped up. "Incoming transmission, priority channel C0-CK5. Com-link established."

"Uh, Captain? We've got a problem here," came the voice of the ship’s chief engineer. Gentle string music and the clink of glasses could be heard in the background of Swann's connection. The sounds reminded Matt of the various functions his parents had held when he was younger.

"What's the situation?" asked Matt.

"You know the guy we wanted? Well, he's here and we talked and all, but he tripled his price."

Matt pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. Why did it always have to get complicated? "We can't afford that."

"Yeah, yeah, I know that. Now, I'd normally say, screw him, but he bought up everything just so he's the only seller in this part of the sector. I'm leanin’ on him, but he's startin' to get grouchy and with all the mercs and freebooters in this little slice of the system, I'm not too comfortable with us staying in orbit too much longer, if you know what I mean." Swann paused. "And, well..."

"Yes?"

"...I could use some help. You know, good cop, bad cop. Shake the guy down a little. Maybe wake Raynor up--"

The crew had noticed Raynor's drinking. It was hard not to, with the man practically living in the cantina lately. He'd been hoping to avoid dealing with its effect a little longer. Matt said briskly, "The _commander_ is busy right now." Before Swann could reply, he added, "I'm on my way."

"You are? I mean, you're -- wait!"

 

\---------

 

Matt knew he wouldn’t be remembered in the history books of the future. The best he could hope for was one day becoming the punchline of a funny joke told in a far-distant cantina. It didn’t bother him though, because most of his life wasn’t worth mentioning even by himself.

So far, his life could be described as thus: Childhood had been good. Adulthood was _awesome_.

When he could be bothered to remember his developmental years on Tyrador IX, he recalled it as a long monotonous stretch of paper pushing, pushups, and pushing around, all of which culminated in an impressive level of boredom. He appreciated it only for the time it gave him to hone the various skills that allowed him to finally be of use to the resistance. As a young man looking for adventure and purpose, he thought he couldn’t do any better. Then he met Jim Raynor, and that, he knew, was when his life really got started.

“You keep going like this son, you’re going to end up with my job,” Raynor had said once, after another successful, if habitually dicey, dropship deploy. Matt had shrugged and smiled even as, inwardly, he somersaulted in pride.

No matter what Raynor said about how their group was more than just one man, they were called _Raynor’s_ Raiders for a reason.

And so, Matt fell into the role of support. He took care of the details, the nitty-gritty of running a battle-cruiser, the feeding and caring of needy freedom fighters, the restocking of arms and ordnance. He took care of everything else, so that Raynor could concentrate on saving the universe. Even in the aftermath of the Tarsonis mission, Matt was determined to hold it all together until Raynor was ready to come back to them.

It didn’t matter how much morale dipped, that the Raiders saw Raynor and wondered if he’d lost his nerve or worse. It didn’t matter that the sewage systems were backing up, that the flight deck was in revolt for the fourth time this month.

“Some things are worth fighting for.”

Matt believed in Raynor’s words, but for all his ability and will, he couldn’t replace Jim Raynor. Despite his best efforts, the roster of the _Hyperion_ shrank each time they docked. Someone’s family was in trouble. Someone was too injured, too tired to keep on fighting. Another wanted to live long enough to see the birth of their first child. A pair got married and decided to try their hands at civilian life. Others just lost their taste for living on the run. Matt didn’t begrudge anyone their decisions, because what else were they fighting for, except the freedom to choose?

Instead, he did the only thing he could do -- he pushed himself to do better. Tried to take up the slack for every new opening, every missing face, every hour Raynor lost himself in the bottom of a bottle. Every victory he won for the Raiders was another day’s grace. On the down side, it led to high expectations among the crew of the _Hyperion_ , and Matt felt obliged not to disappoint.

At least things are always interesting, he told himself as he waited, arms and legs spread. The guards were patting him down for weapons. Or maybe for fitness; he wasn’t too sure given the leer he’d received from the doorman and the note one of the guards had just tucked into his holster belt. They finally waved him through a set of ostentatious wooden doors that reminded him of Mengsk’s -- now Raynor’s -- chambers on the _Hyperion_. Stepping into the brightly lit and high-ceiling room with its classical-style murals and gilded wood carvings, he wondered if they had hired the same interior designer.

 _The Hidden Unicorn_ was a posh gentleman’s club on Petrona, one of the worlds of the Outer Colonies. According to intelligence, Petrona had started out as a seasonal vacation home for rich families of neighbouring colony worlds, before becoming the place for those with a need to keep money hidden away from economic treaties and native banking laws. Now, it was a crumbling society with no allegiance, catering to rogue traders and rich merchants and rebel forces of all stripes and hygiene.

Matt smoothed the front of his uniform, relieved that it was formal enough that he didn’t look too out of place amongst the other people in the room. Most wore dark suits, though a few like him were in some form of official attire. He didn’t recognize any of the organizations they might belong to, which was a good thing given the Raiders were trying to keep a low profile and avoid anyone who knew them. They were low on fuel and in need of vital spare parts after their last skirmish, and morale was the lowest it had ever been. Half the crew, like Raynor, had turned to drink, and while they roused every once in awhile against an enemy that reminded them of who they were, it wasn't enough. They were still drifting, still purposeless.

Well, if everyone else had lost sight of their place in the world, Matt hadn't.

A few of the men in the room turned to look at the newcomer. Matt avoided meeting their eyes. He was here for a different reason. One of their engines had overloaded after a lucky hit and according to Swann, they needed a very specific nut to complete repairs thanks to Mengsk’s eccentric modifications. Swann was working on the more long-term solution of getting a standardized engine, but as luck would have it, a specialist in rare parts was in the sector and agreed to meet them at this club.

Matt scanned the room and spotted the dark corner he’d been told to look out for by the _Hyperion’s_ chief engineer. As Matt walked over, the rogue trader Bethius Kau squinted up at him and chewed on a gilded toothpick. He stroked a small steel box on the table possessively with one ring-bedecked hand. Matt straightened his high collar and nudged Swann aside, sat down and smiled. "I hear you're a hard guy to please."

 

\---------

 

"And that's how we got not only the nut we needed, but also a few crates of Kel-Morian-made nails -- best in the business, if I do say so myself -- some marble polish, and, ah, a pallet of fresh lemons,” said Swann. He stroked his mustache thoughtfully. “I'll admit, I had my doubts about the boy. He's a reliable kid, but there's reliable, and there's willing to let it all hang out and risk everything sort of reliable. He came through in a pinch. Gotta admit, he's good, ‘spite of being so young. He's really good. I didn't know he had it in him."

Raynor scratched his chin, puzzled at the abrupt shift in narrative. He might be coming off a prolonged conversation with a bottle of whiskey, but things shouldn't be this incomprehensible. Before he could say anything though, Swann turned away and pressed a bewildering combination of buttons on a console. When it bleeped, he said into his comm-unit, "Alright Samus, have a go at it." A massive, armored figure standing on a dais in the center of the engineering bay did a bouncy jig, metal clanking and mislaid tools crunching under its feet.

"HEY, whoever left those lying around, I'm docking it from your pay!" Swann shouted before turning a reproachful gaze at Raynor. "Not that any of us are getting paid. Anyway, we're testing the structural integrity of the new alloy for the suits and seeing how much strain it can handle." There was an awkward pause. "That's it."

Raynor squinted at Swann, unable to tell whether Swann didn’t realize he was missing the second half of his story, or if he was deliberately not telling him. The silence stretched past even Raynor's comfort. Realizing he'd just been politely dismissed, Raynor muttered, "Well, good work, carry on," and made his way out.

Raynor paused as the doors of the engineering bay clanked shut behind him. Did he just hear Swann snicker?

 

\---------

 

"Good evening, Commander," said the adjutant.

"Evening, adjutant. What’ve you got for me?" Raynor leaned against the console, still buzzed from last night's -- this morning's session with ye Old #8.

"Add-on complete. Ship's engines are now functioning at full capacity."

"Well, that's good to hear."

"However," the adjutant added ominously, "salvage operations and science lab construction are incomplete. Lights on levels three through four are no longer functioning. There is a burst pipe on deck three and pipes three-six and three-seven have been shut down. Bilge pump has been shut down. Attempts to reroute waste to auxiliary septic systems has failed. Sewage backup is reaching critical. Cleaning supplies, depleted. Toilet paper, depleted. Insufficient air filtration. Not enough alcohol."

Raynor knuckled his brow. His buzz was turning into a low-grade hangover. "Where's Matt?"

"The flight deck has declared itself a sovereign state. In protest of nonexistent pay, tech crew have annexed the cantina. SCV are currently mobilizing against security forces sent to liberate the last barrel of Popish beer. Captain Horner is en route to intercept and negotiate with all parties at this time. Receiving emergency transmissions from decks three and four, the engineering bay, service access two and the closet in the fourth corridor of deck one. Com-link es--"

"Belay that," Raynor interrupted. "When was our last resupply?"

"Estimated time of last resupply: four months and fifteen days. Sensors show an increase in hostility. Mutiny on deck."

Raynor grimaced. Yep, it looked like it was time to go shopping.

"Mutiny on deck." After they dealt with this new problem.

 

\---------

 

Word was, Dominion transports would be docking at a storage facility on a small planetoid called Semtax in Protected Space, bearing supplies for their military bases in the area. The goal was a quick smash and grab -- a minimal force for a few hijacked trucks and fast transport out. With luck, they'd be out of the sector before anyone even noticed the vehicles were missing, let alone the shipment.

Easy-peasy. Brought back to mind the good old days with Tychus.

Raynor signaled to team two as he leaned against the bulkhead. Three marines and the new medic, Beatrice Slug, peeled off from the main group who were waiting huddled in a line behind a tall stack of steel girders and shipping containers. As soon as a pair of clanking sentries passed, Raynor and his men scooted down the length of the transit corridor leading to the storage depot's main entryway, its massive steel doors plainly stamped with its Dominion designation number. The two other medics in his raid team spray-painted the security cameras on their way past.

A jimmied lock to the personnel entrance to the side, and they were in. The trucks they were looking for were lined up in the back of the warehouse, all pretty and fat like hens in a chicken coop. They were tire-locked with mag-bolts, a type of security even the greenest Raider could break. The overseer at the storage depot had the new shipment of supplies stacked across from the trucks for the convenience of the cargo crew; a mistake on their part. They should have known the value of separating transport from goods.

At Raynor's forward signal, the team immediately set to loading the trucks up with whatever they could get their hands on. Over-sized energy cells and batteries went in next to a load of pressed rations. Machine parts and tools where shoved under medical supplies, military issue undergarments and uniforms that could be cannibalized for later use. Another truck was filled with boots and toilet paper. A third with cigars and socks.

Crates were moved and double-checked against a compiled list of requests from everyone on the ship. The list was as long as Raynor was tall, and the type was very, very tiny. Raynor wondered why Matt hadn’t given him a data slate instead. He would’ve asked when Matt first thrust the list at him, but his head had been throbbing like a drum, and Matt was giving him that look that was setting wrinkles into his forehead. Raynor hadn’t gotten those wrinkles till he was 30, which was only a few years past.

Once everything was loaded onto the trucks, there was nothing to do except sit and wait for the next phase of the plan. At 05:00 hours, the guards would change shifts and that would be the Raiders’ cue to put on the spare depot uniforms they’d liberated beforehand and ride on out of there to the pickup point.

Raynor pulled the dirty gray uniform cap over his hair as he sat behind the wheel in the first truck, keeping an eye on the interior doors that led deeper into the facilities. Behind him, he could hear Beatrice quietly arguing with Private Koiter over something. Through the truck's rearview mirror, he saw both of them glance his way and after a moment's hesitation, load on a crate of Umojan beer and a stack of magazines wrapped in brown paper and tied together with twine. Torn between a sense of shame and amusement, Raynor tugged the cap down lower and allowed himself a small smile.

Milk run or not, this was the first time in a long while that Raynor felt like he was doing, well, anything, aside from nursing a perpetual hangover. He had been affecting morale. At least Matt was always there to make sure he didn't do some permanent damage.

Good old Matt Horner. When Arcturus had assigned Matt to help Raynor integrate into the Sons, Raynor had suspected it was some kind of test or a joke. The kid was barely out of his teens, yet had a considerable reputation running the merchantman _Cormorant_. Young guys with that kind of rep came in two flavors: egotistical dick or spies. It was both a surprise and relief when Matt turned out to be a rare third flavor, the true believer. And a competent one at that. They worked well together, his strength in action backed up by Matt’s organization and planning. And now that the kid was a little less a kid, the puppy dog hero worship that had always made Raynor squirm a little inside in embarrassment had been dialed down to... well, he made a dependable old wife.

Which brought to mind... Raynor toggled the com-link, hailing the _Hyperion_. Matt's voice crackled to life in his ear. "Yes, sir?"

"What's our status, Matt?"

"No one's noticed a thing yet, sir. Communications and security systems are all normal. The docked transport we saw on our way in is pulling out on schedule. There are strange energy readings near the reactors under the base, but I'm having trouble seeing what's causing it. There's too much interference from the debris." The planetoid orbited the system in the company of a scattering of space junk and smaller rocks which provided a natural deterrent against unwanted visitors, or so its occupants thought.

"Alright, keep an eye on it, but we haven’t heard anything on ground either, so low priority. Time’s coming up for us to make out of here anyways. Unless there’s something that’s gonna compromise the extraction, radio silence in ten."

"Understood, sir."

Raynor was about to sign off when he figured now was as good a time as any to ask. "Oh, and Matt?"

"Yes?"

"You know, I've been hearing things at the cantina about the trade that went down on Petrona. How exactly did you convince Kau to give you all that stuff?"

"Well," Matt began. Then there was a pause before he blurted, "What the-- SIR! There are zerg incoming! Heading from the east side of the depot, ETA to your coordinates in five!”

Well, hell. They were in no shape to fight the zerg themselves, even with an entire storage facility's worth of artillery and three medics. The storage facility was run mostly robotic, so there was only a token skeleton crew in the complex, tasked with pushing buttons. A boon when they’d planned the raid, now an issue with the fekkin’ zerg joining the party.

"How does it look from where you are?"

"They're being overrun, sir," Matt said, voice edged with a faint accusation that was as heavy as a skillet to Raynor’s head.

Raynor chuckled grimly. "I hear ya. Give them a holler. Send them the coordinates of our rendezvous point and let them know we're willing to fly them out if they meet us for extraction. It's gonna be a bit hairy out there, so watch yourself."

"Understood, sir. Good luck. Horner out."

“Raynor out.” He leaned out the window of the truck and clapped his hands sharply. A group of half-dressed men and women looked at him, their armor bits scattered around. Private Koiter was wearing a Dominion jumpsuit backwards, the goof. "Alright, boys and girls, forget the uniforms. We're gettin’ out on the double." He didn't wait for them to finish their messy dog-pile into the trucks before he started his own up, the old familiar cough of the engine reminding him of the roboharvester on the farm back home.

Raynor pulled a shredder grenade from where he'd stashed it under the dash and leaned out the window again, judging the distance by eye. After thumbing the trigger, he gently lobbed it. The neosteel gates ballooned outward on impact, the resulting explosion paying tribute to the grenade’s moniker. It was one of the perks of carrying the big guns. He got to make even bigger holes.

"Let's roll!"

Beatrice's whooping from the driver's seat of the fourth truck was lost to the sound of screaming metal as they tore free of the mag-locks and barreled through the fiery gates to head out into the desert.

 

\---------

 

The doors to the bridge whooshed closed behind Raynor. As he entered, Matt looked up from the navigational console.

Before Raynor could ask, Matt said, "Adjutant, what is our current status?"

"Science facility construction has resumed. Engine conversion and upgrade is incomplete. Sewage and auxiliary pump systems have been repaired. Shield integrity is down sixty-three percent and dropping. Twenty-three hand-written apologies from tech and security have been submitted for your review."

Matt nodded at the adjutant before turning to report to Raynor. "We took a few hits from the Dominion ships on our way out. Apparently they didn't believe there were zerg on the planet. One of the strikes damaged our power relays and we've rerouted what we could, but we're running on half and the rest is going to environment. Swann thought he could boost what we had, but he's having trouble getting the adaptors to work properly with the modded engines -- otherwise we're liable to blow every reactor across the ship. Basically, our system redundancy will keep us afloat for awhile, but it's not a permanent solution." Matt shrugged stiffly. It was an uncharacteristically sarcastic gesture. Raynor wondered if he'd picked it up hanging out with Swann.

Raynor crossed his arms and whistled. "Sounds like we traded one problem for another."

"The two trucks that we lost from the storage facility action contained the hygiene supplies and toilet paper, but on the bright side, we've plenty of socks to sacrifice, and with all the lemons we still have, the medics report no danger of scurvy. I have everyone scrubbing the decks with salt, lemon juice, and that vat of vinegar as astringents."

"Thank God for small blessings?"

"Something like that. Flight is still in revolt."

"Yeah, tell me something new."

"I do have some good news. You know that shipment of processed sandalwood we acquired awhile back that we never found a use for? Well, I found someone willing to trade for it. They've asked us to rendezvous with them on Melba."

"Do we have anyone that isn't either in the brig or scrubbing the walls?"

"We might have a few."

 

\---------

 

Planet Melba had just gotten toasty.

"Aw hell," Beatrice said, and let loose with a flash grenade, giving Raynor and the others precious seconds to take up defensive positions. A burst of rifle-fire scattered overhead and singed armored plating as they hunkered down. Power suits weren't meant for ducking, but even Raynor and his Goliath-sized gonads probably didn't want to chance one too many rounds hitting his men point blank on what was supposed to be a friendly meet and greet. Wooden platforms creaked overhead as a flurry of cross rounds blew out the scaffolding holding it up. Sparks flew as steel bars buckled under the unexpected stress and scraped against each other on their way down. A large screw flew free from one of the struts and embedded itself in the joint of one marine's armor, narrowly missing his groin to the hilarity of everyone around him.

"These boys sure know how to give a welcome," crackled Raynor's amused voice over the comms.

"MEDIC!" the screwed marine yelped.

"Ooh, where does it hurt? Your finger?" Beatrice aimed her laser at the marine's groin, giving it a quick blast. The laser singed his codpiece to his shrieking disgust.

Moment of hilarity passed, Beatrice turned her attention to a legitimately downed marine and hit her with the laser. The marine’s helmet, already cracked by falling debris, had been penetrated by a low calibre pistol round that would never have gotten through otherwise. She'd lucked out with no brain damage and only some ugly perforation which Beatrice cauterized and numbed immediately. Once they get her back on the _Hyperion_ 's newly stocked medical bay, she might even retain full jaw mobility. The marine shrugged it off and leveraged herself back to her feet, rejoining the others to return fire.

Visibility was shot to hell in the dull fog, a soupy mixture of morning mist and industrial smog, but muzzle blasts could be seen near a lumpy copse of brightly tinted artificial cacti.

"Weren't these supposed to be peaceful negotiations? What the hell's going on? Matt!" Raynor yelled as he fired off shots at the cacti.

Horner was no farther than Raynor's elbow, of course. If Beatrice's husband had been half as devoted to her as Horner was to Raynor, she'd never have left him. She had thoughts on that. Horner and Raynor, not her ex-husband. Well, her ex as well, but he wasn't a pleasant topic to focus the mind on during an unending, often dreary long-haul voyage in the depths of space. A girl's gotta get her fun in somehow, right?

Horner was making a rare planet-side foray since he'd been handling communications with the cartel and was a familiar face to the associates they were meant to link up with on Melba. Which was funny, because Beatrice had been under the assumption that he handled all the communications anyways, but this was the first time she'd seen him on a drop. Unlike everyone else, he wasn't suited up, though he wore an armored flak vest and carried a rifle. In fact, everyone else had only suited up because it was the last presentable outfit they had. The reclaimed water pipe had been shot up last week during a stand-off with those crazy flyboys on the flight deck. And they were totally out of deodorant. Suiting up had been a precautionary measure no one thought they'd needed and dammit all -- this was supposed to be a _relaxing_ mission! They were going to hit the beaches after this!

Echoing her thoughts, Raynor asked, "Since when did 'friendly' business start with a display of firepower?"

"All the time, sir," was Horner's dry response. He was as stolid and dependable as ever, and not a hair out of place.

Not for the first time, Beatrice wondered how Horner managed to keep military grooming standards with the nonexistent supply of starch and strictly rationed cleaning supplies. Must be a perk of the job, being second-in-command and all. Probably a lot of perks, working under a man like Raynor. Mm hm, yup, right under. Sure, the commander had been a little scruffy lately, but she couldn’t blame him, what with all that trash on the news and radio making him out to be some grand villain. Anybody would need a little something to take the edge off of that. Besides, Horner was there to pretty things up on the ship in the meantime.

They worked well together, those two. Their characters weren’t opposites, like the dashing leads of those ancient romantic action novels Horner had mysteriously gifted to the medics one day, but more like complementary flavors, like... chocolate-covered nuts. Where Raynor was eager to jump into the fray, Horner was the steady gun covering his back. Probably covering a lot more besides, when they were in private, if you could believe the betting pool that had sprung up around their relationship.

God, how much did it suck that the new porno mags they’d picked up on Semtax got blown up by the robotic sentries? Roberto got out fine, but damn... the porn! She was reduced to fantasizing about her bosses. She tried to focus on the task at hand. Now was shooty time, though given the undisciplined fire of whoever was attacking them, and the overkill of protection from their armor, it was hard to not let her mind wander a little.

"Well, at least we know their ammo is good ammo," Raynor chuckled.

"No use if they end up wasting all of it. I'm trying to hail them on comms, but they're not responding," said Horner.

"Alright, I'll stay here and play with these boys for awhile. You head around back and see what's got Eidolon's panties in a twist."

"Yes, sir!" Horner signaled to three of the men and they moved out to the right to circle around the depot buildings and try to make contact with the cartel associates.

The area where the meeting had been arranged was a paved, roughly square space a short ways off the main highway, tucked between the drab beige buildings that made up the workers’ apartments and a short mangrove forest edging out to a blue-gray sea. It was elevated above ground level, built on a natural sea terrace that lined the shore. To the left of where they had recently disembarked from their APC stood the long and wide buildings of the hanger bay and the garage, taking up one side of the square. A lone civilian cargoship was sitting on the empty tarmac in front of them. To the right was a landing zone, walled with supply crates and towering scaffolding that threatened to fall on their heads. Beyond that were rows of squat brown depot buildings that Horner’s team was using as cover while Raynor’s drew on the shooters.

Their mystery attackers were hidden behind the stacks of steel shipping containers lined up near the sea-facing side of the square. Aerial docking ports extended out above the mangroves from that side, and the long arms of tall cranes and loading machines were visible against the brightening sky.

Raynor waved them forward despite the limited cover. So far the attackers hadn’t used anything strong enough to do more than chip the paint on their chicken suits, and they needed to push in for both a better position and as a distraction.

“Focus,” Beatrice muttered to herself as she waited for her turn to roll forward. She watched with glee as Raynor fired off a few shots at one of the muzzle flares in the distance. The sparking light angled up abruptly from a successful hit, and now there was one less gun pointed at them. The signal came, and she ran towards the next set of crates, barely paying attention to the plick-plick of bullets bouncing off her white armor. Raynor nodded at her as she ducked down between him and Koiter. The other medic on the Melba mission, Marcus, had pulled out his grenade launcher and was aiming for a cluster of shots coming from behind some shipping containers stamped with the insignia of a pink cactus.

There was a deep boom, a whistle, a flash of light and a loud bang, then screams. Raynor’s group pushed up again, knocking over a few of the ornamental neon cacti that incongruously littered the area. From what Beatrice recalled, it had been mentioned in the mission briefing that the cartel they were trading with used a stylized cactus as their sign, but she’d kind of tuned that part out, more engrossed with the betting pool she and the other medics were running for the mission. It wasn’t important anyways, she thought, as she experimentally lobbed the neosteel cactus plant at a figure in tan light combat armor who ran out from behind a forklift. Whatever he was yelling at her was abruptly cut off as the cactus smashed into his visor and threw his head back at an unnatural angle.

“Nice arm,” Raynor said.

“Star pitcher of the 25th CMC Medics baseball team, sir,” Beatrice replied with a grin. The suits enhanced her strength, but aiming was still all in the wrist.

They were spread out in groups of three amongst the neat rows of shipping containers. Nobody was shooting at them from above, but they didn’t have the numbers to sweep the area safely, especially with a third of the force off to find a peaceful (or final) solution, the medics only lightly armed, and two soldiers with injuries. Raynor’s armor was better than theirs, and he had some kind of superhuman ability to beat the odds, but that didn’t guarantee the lives of the rest of the team, and Raynor was never the type to sacrifice others. Which was why she was a Raider, and not a dead CMC.

They waited for Raynor’s next orders. It felt like the old days again, almost, right down to the mangled bodies lying in pools of congealing blood that they got to step over or crouch beside as they secured the remains of their forces behind the first line of shipping containers. There was a faint, traitorous thought that slipped through her mind about whether Raynor was really up to this, was really together enough to get them through this and back onto the _Hyperion_ with all their toes intact.

She squished it immediately. Raynor would never let them down, hadn’t yet, and besides, Horner was backing them up, and there was a man known for getting his people out of tight spots. Faith reaffirmed, she slowed her breathing and waited. There was a plan. There was always a plan.

 

\---------

 

Matt wasn't ducking so much as being jostled and shoved around by the marines surrounding him. He ran ahead, unencumbered by the weight of power armor, and dodged behind a large pink cactus. He caught his breath as he waited, watching the marines clank forward in a straight line toward him as they returned fire with drilled precision. Low-calibre gunshots pinged off their armor and ricocheted into the ground, sending up small bursts of sand dust and occasional chips of gray concrete. The cactus Matt was leaning against began to flash brightly and play a cheerful jingle, triggered by some hidden mechanism.

The marines clustered around the cactus, forming a solid wall of blue metal around him. It was a little humiliating to be placed in the position of being guarded, Matt thought ruefully. Things would be different if he still had his suit.

He’d been neutral on the idea of wearing armor into what was supposed to be a simple handshake meeting. It would’ve been too aggressive, too overt a show of how much power they could bring to bear if negotiations didn’t go their way. Matt was all for having power, but he preferred more subtle methods, the kind that left the other side thinking they had won something when in truth they’d been taken for a ride. Also, it always helped to remind Raynor that things were Not Going Well. There was a distinct funk of the unwashed starting to permeate all the decks, and even the surplus of socks had dwindled alarmingly due to the concurrent shortage of toilet paper. Going out wearing power armor because regular clothes were no longer an option, well, warning signs couldn’t come much bigger than that.

He regretted not getting his suit fixed now. There really hadn’t been a good reason not to, except for the embarrassment of explaining to anyone how, exactly, he’d managed to damage the finest military armor in the galaxy with a plastic spork. He’d hid the poor thing in one of the supply closets on the lower decks of the _Cormorant_ , knowing nobody down there knew what a mop looked like, let alone where to get one. On the _Hyperion_ , he’d stashed it away in the accounts hardcopy archive room, a musty chamber of shelves filled with haphazard stacks of old paper records and rotting ledgers, the odd leather-bound history book, and a large cache of 20th century pulp fiction with lurid covers in a cardboard box marked “LIVING ROOM”. The medics had appreciated the books.

The shooting seemed to have died down, that or the Raiders had killed them all. So much for peaceful negotiations. His communicator beeped at him.

“Horner,” he subvocalized into his handset.

“Incoming transmission for you, coded Rhinestone,” said the voice of the adjutant in his ear. That would be their contacts, the Desert Cowboys. “Would you like to receive?”

“Open the channel, adjutant.” There was a click, then another click as the connection was made.

“Rhinestone, this is Farmboy. We are under attack at the specified location. What the hell?” No sense with playing nice, if the attackers were their men. If this was a rival cartel, the Cowboys would be just as pissed.

“Look behind you.” Matt froze. This was going to be tricky.

 

\---------

 

That brilliant plan of Raynor’s and/or Horner’s could kick in any time now, yup, any time. Now.

There was a distant thoom, then a speck appeared against a scuddy white cloud in the rapidly lightening sky.

The plan could kick in now, thank you very much. Beatrice watched the speck resolve into an angry looking fekkin’ rocket what in the UNHOLY -- Beatrice realized she was shouting as she ran like the rest of the team, scattering further into the dangerous close corridors between the shipping containers. The rocket overshot their previous position and smashed into a shiny red loading bed, which promptly exploded in shiny red shrapnel and flaming rubber. Private Flense, the marine who’d been screwed in the groin earlier, yelled out for a medic again as a flying piece of axle speared him in the butt. What a joker.

Raynor was cool as ice on the comms, ordering everyone to stay in groups of three and work their way through the grid in a triangle pattern, regrouping at the last row’s third container. Beatrice saw Marcus attach himself to Flense and Samus, hitting them with his laser as they limped their way into position.

“Let’s go,” Raynor said to her grimly, and she nodded. Just in case, she grabbed a cactus plant to go with her.

It wasn’t the prettiest advance, but they didn’t have a choice. Horner should’ve had enough time to get around the depot buildings. He hadn’t contacted them yet, which meant that he was probably under attack, still searching the docks while trying to raise the cartel on the comms, or both. All of which meant they wouldn’t be available to come in and flank whoever was shooting at them.

“Matt, sitrep,” Raynor was saying as he peered around a corner, then swore and jerked back. A small spark flashed as a bullet hit the container and ricocheted. Raynor crouched and stuck his gun around the corner, firing off a few shots to get the opposition to duck. “Matt, report!”

Horner replied on the unit-wide channel. Two timed clicks, a pause, then one click. The nonverbal code for “goal achieved” and “hold position”. Since it was communicated in such a manner though, it meant the meeting wasn’t going any better than the firefight they’d engaged in here. Great, Beatrice thought. She didn’t have anything better to do today anyways, who needed to study up on how to fly? It’s not like Swann would ever agree to buying one of those new medivac dropships, he always insisted his modifications were much better than any of that new stuff the Dominion was coming up with. Not like they would have the money in the first place. She’d have better luck convincing Raynor he should take advantage of Horner’s hero worship and have some fun once in awhile.

Trooper Kang cried out a warning. Another rocket had been launched and was barreling down at them.

“Scatter!” Raynor shouted. They broke formation and ran out of the rows of shipping containers for the open landing zone. God alone knew what was being stored in these things. Hopefully none of them was a box full of --

The explosion whited out all noise and sensation. Time seemed to slow, and Beatrice watched with the calm detachment of a seasoned medic as blue and white armor-suited figures were lifted off their feet and thrown into the air, a bright pink cactus plant flying next to them like a familiar. Almost graceful, the gentle arc of their lift and fall. Then she hit the ground, and reality reasserted itself.

Her teeth ached, there was a ringing sound in her ears, and she may have chipped a nail, though it was hard to tell under all the armor. Her suit scraped against the ground, sparks and paint chips flying up, and her breechcloth was on fire goddammit. She tore it off and staggered into a position where she could get up, checking on the health of her team automatically via the HUD. Raynor was already back on his feet, gun slack at his side as he stared at the flaming shipping containers behind them. Beatrice, satisfied that everyone’s armor had taken the brunt of the shockwave, turned to see what was so fascinating.

At least one of the containers had evidently been meant for a hell of a party, because it had been filled with fireworks, which were now going up like it was Independence Day come early. They were the fancy kind of fireworks, the ones that made shapes that briefly danced in the sky. She’d never seen such a... cheerfully pornographic version of them, though. Huh, that was an interesting position.

A wide-signal communication popped up on everyone’s HUDs. Raynor swiveled his head in the direction of the docks, then gave a short nod and said something into his comm. He turned back to them, lightly punching Koiter and Garcia’s shoulder guards as he passed, the two of them slack-jawed at the spectacle over the shipping yard.

“Ceasefire’s been called,” Raynor said, “looks like Horner was successful.”He was grinning smugly. As if it’d never been in doubt. Which, Beatrice thought with a smug grin of her own, it hadn’t been.

 

\---------

 

Raynor relaxed as soon as he heard Matt’s voice over the comm. Not that he’d thought Matt was in any sort of trouble, the kid had more tricks up his sleeve than a Haji street magician. Still, he’d have to be the worst sort of cold not to feel a little worried, especially since he was used to having Matt protect his ass from the safety of the _Hyperion_. He’d have to get his hands on an extra power armor suit for Matt, in case something like this ever happened again.

As they approached the docking area, Matt turned and threw a sharp salute to Raynor. The marines with Matt were arranged in a covering position behind him, weapons at ease. Their expressions were curiouser to parse, Raynor noticed as his group came closer. They were staring at Matt with looks of quiet awe, not unlike the stares they used to give Raynor when he came back from doing something immeasurably stupid and deadly.

The men from the cartel had turned to face them, their black cowboy hats pulled low over their mirror shades. A man in a brown business suit and a blue sash who must’ve been Eidolon didn’t turn, too busy staring at Matt with an intensity that Raynor found uncomfortable. He quickly inserted himself into Eidolon’s line of sight.

“You must be Eidolon,” he said, and didn’t extend his hand. He saw Matt frown a little at him in the HUD display that showed what was going on behind him. “What in the hell was that back there?”

Eidolon looked up, his vision now filled with Raynor’s power armor. He made an irritated huff and waved his hand dismissively. “A misunderstanding, we have explained to your boy here.” There was a weird emphasis on “your boy” that Raynor didn’t like.

“Right, well sorry ain’t going to bring back your men, you know.” Raynor adjusted his gun, an unsubtle reminder of their greater firepower. “So, we have an accord?” Matt had slipped out from behind him and was standing by his side. Eidolon’s eyes immediately went back to looking at Matt. Raynor didn’t like that either.

"Your boy is good with the whip, hm?" Eidolon gave Raynor an exaggerated, lecherous wink. Okay, Raynor really didn’t like that. What the hell? "Perhaps if we could be meeting up again a better time, hm? It is always hard to find a positive relationship like you and your boy’s, though I have searched many a sector. Not many people are so interested in safe and consensual with their slaves.”

Raynor blinked, not sure what Eidolon was suggesting, and not wanting to understand. “Uh, yeah maybe another time. But let’s talk about what we came here for.” When in doubt, the clear parameters of the mission briefs the adjutant prepared for them was always a good fallback.

“Ah, about that,” Matt said, tapping Raynor’s arm guard three precise times. _Play along._

“Yes, as I have explained to your delightful boy, we regret to say we only have part of your request, the engine,” said Eidolon with another indifferent wave of his hand.

“But to make up for that, they’re willing to help us resupply the basics. Medikits, soap, nutrient packs -- anything that’s in the shipping containers, they’re ours.” Matt looked pleased with the results of his negotiation. Raynor shifted awkwardly as did the other members of his team upon hearing this.

“Did you happen to see those fireworks?” said Raynor to Eidolon. Eidolon shrugged.

“We did, what was that?” Matt responded instead, suspicion stealing across his face.

No way to soften this blow, far as he knew. Besides, this was Eidolon’s fault, Eidolon’s problem. “Your boys,” Raynor said, careful to make sure it sounded nothing like the way Eidolon lingered on the words, “pulled out the big guns. They launched rockets right smack into the middle of those shipping containers you just gave us, conveniently hit the one with the most explosives in it, and blew the rest up. So I hope you have something else to give us. Perhaps something from those depots. I mean, you look like you have plenty, bein’ so careless with what you explode in the first place.”

Eidolon frowned and said something to his cadre of black-suited subordinates. They muttered amongst themselves, then shrugged in unison. Something was definitely off about these Desert Cowboys. Raynor was itching to finish their business, not to mention this whole thing with Matt was kinda bugging him, and perhaps they should have a sit down after debriefing.

“The contents of the depot are not on the table, Mr. Raynor,” said Eidolon, still wearing a frown and no longer making googly eyes at Matt.

“That engine you got is not worth half the trouble we had just getting here,” Raynor pointed out, trying not to sound too smug. “You aren’t the only guys around looking for a box of pristine, unopened sandalwood.” Eidolon was losing his oily composure, worrying the sash that crossed his body.

Eidolon said, hesitantly, “It is not as simple as opening the doors for you. The stored goods, some are not wholly ours, yes?”

“Not my problem,” Raynor said, shrugging. “It’s your mess to deal with.”

“I must protest --” Eidolon started, his brows drawing downwards in anger.

He was interrupted by a polite cough. “If I may,” Matt said.

The effect on Eidolon was instantaneous and seriously, Matt had better spill the beans on whatever number he pulled on this guy to have him so wrapped around his little finger. “Of course, I welcome your input always, whatever you like.” It had gone from disturbing to hilarious, and Raynor was having a hard time keeping a straight face. Matt looked about the same as he always did, serious and put-upon, which made the contrast against Eidolon’s obvious crush even greater. Even Flense was more subtle trying to get Slug’s attention half the time, and that involved getting tagged on the ass.

“Sir, could you take the team back to the loading zone and see what can be salvaged?” Matt beckoned him closer. Raynor obliged and half crouched, leaning in so Matt could whisper in his ear. The hand on the front of his armor was a nice touch as well. “I think it’ll be easier to convince him if I can talk to him alone.”

“Sure you don’t need a chaperone?”

“Ha ha but no thanks, sir, I can handle it.” Matt brushed a stray lock of Raynor’s hair back and tucked it behind his ear before pulling away. “Thank you, sir,” he said loudly, and gave Raynor a bashful smile. Eidolon blushed even redder than Raynor, though Raynor decided his own was out of embarrassment and the pressing need not to burst into laughter. That was probably the same problem the team was having too, he thought, and decided to leave it at that as they shuffled their way back to the shipping containers.

The smoke from the fires had dissipated completely by the time Matt returned, minus his adoring admirer. Bezel, Hiraam and Nolan, the team that had gone off with Matt before, nodded respectfully as Matt passed. Matt waved them back to their jobs.

“What do you got for me?” Raynor said.

Matt smiled, his usual one, thankfully. “I got something for everyone,” Matt said, “so I took the liberty of having adjutant send down a few transports to load up.” Raynor waited, letting Matt have his moment. “Lord Eidolon agreed to give us the engine, and let us cherry-pick however much we could carry from the supply depots, along with what’s left of the shipping containers. I say we get it done as quick as possible before he realizes we’ve got more than just an APC to fill and changes his mind.”

“Impressive. Good work.” Raynor pulled most of the team off salvage duty among the shipping containers, and redeployed them towards the depots. Kang and Samus were in charge of hot-wiring the forklifts and loading vehicles to speed up their work. Flense and Slug insisted on continuing their dig around the remains of the Desert Cowboys’ containers. Slug kept saying something about the mental health of the crew amongst other medical mumbo jumbo that Raynor tuned out. The medics were a bit of a class of their own, but he trusted them to know what they were doing. He let her continue her work.

Raynor caught up with Matt who was on his way back to the highway turnoff to retrieve the APC. “Hey, wait up,” Raynor called out. There were all sorts of cats to be let out of the bag here.

“Jim,” Matt said. They walked along in companionable silence for a distance, Raynor careful to slow his strides so Matt wouldn’t have to run to keep up. “That went well, all things considered.”

“It did indeed. I’ll admit, I was surprised you pulled it off, but I should know by now that you always get your way, eh?”

Matt tilted his head and smiled up at Raynor, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "We both do.” They ambled on a bit further before Raynor decided it was the opportune time to ask.

“So,” Raynor said, pulling up a discreet HUD shot of Matt’s profile so he wouldn’t give away his own burning interest. “What was that all about? How’d you convince Eidolon back there?”

“Turns out there was a mix-up in our communications. They thought we were Raynor’s Traders, come to raid.” Matt shrugged. “Apparently accent marks are very important in their dialect. We’ll need to update the adjutant’s database.” Raynor waited for Matt to continue, but Matt was quiet.

Raynor poked Matt in the shoulder. “And convincing Eidolon?”

Matt's easy smile dropped and turned into one that was faker than a carny’s. “It wasn’t difficult after we were on the same page,” he said. And said nothing else.

Raynor rolled his eyes. The kid always had to play hard to get. “C’mon, spill! I’m hearing all sorts of stories lately about your superior negotiation skills. My way’s always been to let my gun do the talking, but I’m not too old to pick up a few tricks, I hope.” He poked Matt again with an armored finger. “What’s this about whips and sex slaves? Bit of the old Navy coming out there? Rum, sodomy, and the lash, all that?” Ha, Matt was practically squirming now. Raynor had done and seen many terrible things in his life. If Matt was going to stick with Raynor till the end, then he’d have to learn to get over some of that ingrained sense of propriety.

“Some things may have come up during negotiation that weren’t strictly related to the matter at hand. You have to think fast with these things, feel out the other guy. Lie a lot. You know how it goes,” Matt said. He squinted up into the sky and blurted out in the worst attempt at changing the subject ever, “I think those are the transport ships. You should probably get back and make sure the engine got delivered, at least.”

Right, like he was just going to give up and turn around. Not gonna happen. He had his own ways of persuading people to do what he wanted.

“Oh come on,” Raynor whined, “I told you about that time about that thing with the pudding and the squid alien." He stretched his arm across Matt’s shoulders and shook him a little. “Tell me. I mean, everyone else knows something already, and you know, I bet I could just ask Hiraam, he can’t keep secrets worth shit.” He put a wheedling note into his voice. “So it’s not like I wouldn’t find out eventually, what with this being my ship that I’m letting you pilot. Matt, c’mon son, just fess up.”

Matt sighed. “Fine.” They stopped beside the APC and faced each other, Raynor grinning triumphantly, Matt looking resigned and a little peeved.

Matt showed him.

 

\---------

 

Raynor stood on the bridge alone. It was dark in space, the only illumination came from his ship via the blue-white lights from the consoles and doorways, and the green glow from the holo display behind him. They flickered in blurry, streaky blobs across the viewport glass.

He pulled a cigar from his pocket. It had come from the Semtax stash. He was finding them hidden all over the ship in the strangest places. This one had been stuck inside an empty paper roll in one of the service closets. What he had been doing rooting around in the service closet was his business, and his business alone. He clipped the end with his pocket multi-tool and stuck the cigar in his mouth.

"Adjutant," Raynor mumbled around the cigar. "Give me our status."

"Engines, shields and life support are functioning at full capacity. Laundry room is working at full capacity. Tech, security and engineering have been released from the brig and have returned to their regular duties. Flight crew have agreed to surrender to the authority of Caesar Matius Hornerus of the republic of _Hyperiona_. Advice requested. Recently acquired pornographic items have been redistributed by the medical staff to facilitate and encourage proper mental health. The current betting pools open are: number of days until next violent altercation with people who want to kill us; number of shots to the groin Flense will take before there is an irreversible accident; Raynor versus Horner, who's on top? Total percentage of crew involved in betting pool is 93%. New recipe for pudding inputted into recipe database.”

Heh, those kids. Maybe he'd throw a few credits into the pool himself. Raynor lit the cigar and inhaled. Held the flavour in his mouth, then exhaled a cloud of smoke and let the adjutant's peaceful, gentle voice wash over him as his ship glided undisturbed through space. He didn’t know how long this mood would last, but he would savour it while it did, and hold onto the happier memories when darker times fell upon them.

 

\---------

 _  
Heroes. Forget about ‘em. Forget about all those big, charismatic men and women with muscles and swagger larger than a small moon. You think one hero is what wins an entire war against a zerg swarm? One hero on a single ship against the thousand strong fleets of the Navy? Ha! Don’t make me laugh. Let me tell you, the place heroes exist are in the minds of men and on glossy posters trying to convince you to kill yourself on a distant planet where nobody will even remember how you died. So how do we win then, you ask?_

 _The answer is something so simple, so mundane, you already use it every day._

 _Planning._

 _Yeah, that’s right. Laugh it up, then think about it. If you don’t have plans, you won’t have enough weapons in storage. No weapons, no fight, no war. No war, well, you're just the slurry that comes out the back end of a zerg. What about food? You got enough of that squirreled away? No food, no energy, no life._

 _Don’t have to tell you how that ends up, do I? Supplies, ammunition, pay - these things aren't glamorous, keeping track of it all less so, but if you got none of it sorted, your own men will throw in the towel for you, if not at you. So what am I talking about? Hasn’t changed for thousands of years._

 _Your friendly supply depot. Your engineering bay. Your SCV._

 _Guard them well and pay your respects to the people who manage them, because friend, that battle you're fighting is only half the war._

 

 

 

THE END.

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place sometime between Brood Wars and Wings of Liberty. Tried to keep everything as in-universe canon as possible, hopefully between novels, wikia, and the games we managed it. Also all attempts to understand what attenuated medical lasers did in real world terms failed. We made up a few planets for the Koprulu sector and gave the medic a name, since all the previous named medics for the Raiders were killed around the Brood Wars time period. Haji is the planet Gabriel Tosh is from.
> 
> At this point, the Raiders are basically 40 men/women strong, and with some poor recruiting during turbulent, Mengsk-controlled times, their numbers swell to almost 50. The flight crew is basically 2 guys. The guy with red underwear sacrifices it as a flag for the republic. The guy with the white underwear sacrifices it as a flag of surrender. Together they are... two dudes who are underwearless. The adjutant keeps sending them unhelpful recipes involving oysters.
> 
> Final section references the following quote:  
>  _  
> “Forget all you have been told about the heroic legends of the Empire. Forget tales of bravery and sacrifice. Forget the legends of the rune-fangs and Ghal Maraz. Do you really think that we would remain the mightiest realm on the earth if we relied on those magical trinkets in battle? I will tell you the truth. Every battle is won or lost before a sword is even picked up. The real glory of the Emperor’s armies lies in one simple, mundane thing. Planning. If you have no stores of blackpowder, no ledgers for payment, no lines of supply, no schedule for armaments, you are doomed. I will also tell you the most potent weapon in all the armies of men. Though you may not believe me now, you will when the time of testing comes. Curb your laughter, and listen to me. It is the baggage train.”_ \---- **From an address given by General Erasmus Jasper von Mickelberg, Chief Instructor at the Imperial College of Arms, Altdorf (Iron Company, Chris Wraight)**
> 
>  
> 
> Bonus life: KITTYFACE APPEARS ON THE SCENE =`x`= =’x’= =*x*= Seriously, that armor of theirs is utterly a kittyface.


End file.
